


you're the holiest thing i know

by churchofeverydaywhores, wetknees



Series: Cursed Kinks [2]
Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Degradation, F/M, Knife Play, M/M, Other, Sexual Violence, references to holy communion again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchofeverydaywhores/pseuds/churchofeverydaywhores, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetknees/pseuds/wetknees
Summary: Now this part, this was all you. You moved your lips to the wound, licking up the blood like wine at communion. You poured all your love into this bit, metallic tang tasting like love on your lips, as he refused to kiss you anyway.--Your childhood best friend pays you a visit among many.TW for Blood and Violence
Relationships: Jeffrey Woods | Jeff the Killer/Reader
Series: Cursed Kinks [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126658
Kudos: 10





	you're the holiest thing i know

**Author's Note:**

> Pastor Cecil here! I'm a sinner, and also coping, and also I have a blood kink. Here you go!

You had waited for this day for a long, long time. The day where he would finally let you tie him up. When he would finally lose the shame that held him like shackles from your firm, harsh grip. You saw the way he would tremble when you got on top. The whines he held in the back of his throat as you marked it up from the outside. The small intake of breath when you would pick up his knife.

You now held that same knife in your grip as you stroked it across the stone you held in your other hand. You honestly were only sharpening now— here, in front of him as he sat on his knees, all tied up on your sheets— to up the intensity, to make him tremble. That was always one of your favorite parts of the rendezvous, making him feel small. He spent his entire life outside your bedroom as a predator. A stalker in the night to carry out the will of the one in charge. You were just a regular person. Or so he thought.

It was an outlet for both of you, these little meetings. You got to take out your anger, slap him around, and he got to feel small, to lose all care for once in his life.

And speaking of slapping him around, you had decided that enough was enough, and that it was time to get to business. You wouldn’t just give him what he wanted right off the bat, however. First, you would play with him a little.

You moved to sit further up on your bed, watching his wide, manic eyes stare you down with no hesitation as you shifted closer. You put your arms on either side of his spread legs, faces inches apart. You said nothing yet, just stared into those dark and open eyes. He only looked at you like this when he wanted something. He only looked at you when he wanted something. He didn’t want you, he wanted what you could give him. He wanted your firm strike and your knife skills. He had wiggled his way into your heart, and your house, and yet the only time you could even catch yourself in his eyes was during times like these.

You raised a hand, slapping his across his face, opening up a scab wound on his cheek that he had procured some time that week before he got to your house. Through slapping him, you batted away your own thoughts, useless and vain at a time like this. He was expecting of you right now, and who were you to deny him?

You struck him again, this time grabbing him across the face as soon as you did it.

“I’m still astonished to think that you like this.” You said, disgust evident in your voice. You took theatre in highschool, and you only hoped it could fill in the blanks of only half-disgust that you felt for him in that moment. You adored him, and he hated it. To keep him around, you had to be rude. And you could give him that, if nothing else.

“Open up.” You said in an almost sing-song tone as you used your thumb to pry his mouth open. You were half-afraid he would bite you, but to your surprise, he didn’t. He just took it, opening up and sticking his tongue out a bit, half lidded eyes watching you with intensity. You took the opportunity to spit into his mouth, closing it by force.

“Swallow. Enjoy it, baby.” You said, quiet tone full of annoyance and commanding.

“Be a good bitch and you might get what you want.” You said, tapping the knife still in your other hand against his exposed thigh. He was clad in only his boxers, shivering from the open window that he had come in through and forgot to close. You could hear the croak of the bugs, winding down on a dark autumn night. You lived out near the woods, so you originally had no fear, and kept your window open. Jeff had made you a fool when he had crawled in one night. You didn’t recognize him at first, childhood friend turned crazed psychopath. It was the glint in his eyes and the cheekbones that you had always envied that told you that you two had met before. But he knew who you were. Of course he did.

You moved the hand that wasn’t holding the knife to rub against the tent in his boxers, soft groan getting held up in his throat.

“Get on with it, doll.” He said, voice gravelly and telling of nothing, despite his body language telling you everything you needed to know. The rough rope cutting into his joints holding his wrists together only made it clearer.

You took the knife and held the tip to his adams apple, not even allowing him to swallow. The pressure was more frightening to you than it was to him, and you could bet that it was probably driving him a bit mad. Well, if he could get more mad.

“Do you think you’re in any position to be giving me orders, Jeffery?” You asked, spitting acid quick and harsh. He couldn’t reply, of course, unless he actually wanted to puncture his throat. You knew his survival instinct would still overtake this close to his arterys.

“Y’know, I could just end you. Right here, right now. All those years of suffering won’t mean a thing, baby, you were just too much of a slut to withhold from your own demise.” You leaned in close to whisper in his ear, filthy threats spilling from your lips like prose. You traced a straight line gently across his throat, revelling in his hitch and sputter as he tried not to breathe.

Finally, you stopped playing with his throat, drawing away as he inhaled big gulps of air, as quietly as he could force himself. You instead moved the blade to his arms, pulling them forward, almost tilting him over as both of his arms were pulled because of it. You took his blade and without much hesitation, you dragged it heavy across his arm, watching the blood well up in its trail.

Now this part, this was all you. You moved your lips to the wound, licking up the blood like wine at communion. You poured all your love into this bit, metallic tang tasting like love on your lips, as he refused to kiss you anyway. You pressed bloody kisses into his wrist, all your adoration lined in ichor on your lips. You pressed down as to draw more from him, sucking it up like you would die without it.

You didn’t even look up to watch him face as he fell apart above you. He watched with such intensity that he was damn near drooling, all focus on you as your lidded eyes fell closed in ecstasy.

And when you finally wound down for the night, all sweaty, gross and bloody, he watched you again. Your breathing, the way the streetlight refracted off your marred skin, and you. He fell asleep thinking of you, of your weight on his chest, the way you smelt, your laugh.

And when you woke up, for the first time in the two years you both had been doing this, he was right there with you.


End file.
